


Destiny (Again)

by slothinsocks



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Fucking, Gratuitous Smut, Romance, Shameless Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothinsocks/pseuds/slothinsocks
Summary: Destiny has a strange way of bringing people together again. After Geralt is met with a familiar face, he comes to terms with his feelings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 132





	Destiny (Again)

**—————**

**12 years before the fall of Cintra . . .**

**—————**

Isira hadn’t seen much of the Continent — being locked away within a tower for so long really had kept her shackled and in the dark on so many things. Only five years ago, she’d earned her freedom thanks to a certain Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. He’d broken her out of the tower she’d been placed in not long after her birth, her father terrified of the magic she possessed. 

They hadn’t seen one another for a long time. She’d been on the coast, enjoying the warm atmosphere and the sandy shores. Reading, learning, and being housed with a family that taught her so much about life and all of its nuances. 

Wherever Geralt was, wherever fate had taken him, she hoped that he was safe and happy. Things had ended awkwardly between them, so many feelings left unresolved and many things left unspoken. After months of traveling with Jaskier and him, fate had intervened. Destiny had other plans for Geralt — plans that simply couldn’t involve her. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, and Isira was quite upset, but she parted ways with them and faded into a simpler life.

The use of her magic let her age rather gracefully — she looked unchanged, perfect after those five years. She’d gained freckles that splashed beneath her eyes and across her cheeks, and her complexion had become sunkissed with the new locale. The beach was beautiful — white shores, and a cerulean ocean all before her.

Isira was happy — she’d finally learned to know where her place was in this world. The family that had sheltered her for such a long time had been the parents she’d never had, the comforting, guiding figures she’d always yearned for.

That is, until she received a letter from Jaskier, her friend, the Bard. It was written in elegant script, asking her to come with him to a ball in which Princess Pavetta would take up the hand of a man in marriage. It was Queen Calanthe’s banquet, all the way in the kingdom of Cintra. He was insistent and really wanting her to accompany him — and she would, of course.

Isira rode a long way to find Jaskier at a small, clean-cut town miles outside of Cintra, where the Bard was joyously expecting her arrival. He was waiting inside of the local tavern, upstairs and hovering near a small room.

“Oh, Isira! It has been so long!” He embraced her, giddy to show her what was behind the mahogany door. “I have a surprise for you, behind this door. Consider it unresolved destiny, yes?” Jaskier was giddy, but there was a hint of mischief within his eyes.

As the door swung open, Isira was met with Geralt, who happened to be soaking in the bathtub, though she could only see part of his torso and above, thankfully. He looked a little shocked to see her, but that swifty turned into rage. “Jaskier!” He roared, thrashing a bit before the Bard gulped. Geralt tried throwing something at the Bard, but it had narrowly missed.

“This was the surprise, Geralt! The good one!” He groaned, cautioning him to stay down. “Stay in that bathtub, don’t scar the lady’s eyes! I’ll be back!” The Bard had immediately retreated back out from the doorway, nudging Isira inside before slamming it shut behind her.

Isira was scarlet in the face, embarrassed as she twined her hands together, twiddling her thumbs. “I’m sorry,” Her soft, sweet voice was hushed and incredibly flustered. “I didn’t know . . .” She trailed off, but Geralt stopped her, knowing his temper might scare her off.

“Don’t. He’s a fool.” Geralt sighed, leaning back against the sharp, wooden surface with a low grunt. Yet, all the while, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Isira, the magical girl he’d saved years ago. She looked absolutely gorgeous, beautiful and ethereal, even better since the last time his eyes had laid themselves upon her. She seemed nervous and flustered, wrapped up within an elegant, velvet - emerald cloak. 

“It’s good to see you again, at least.” Her reply was sheepish, and she’d finally met his gaze with one of her own. It screamed enticement and subtle adoration, and Geralt could never forget about those bright green eyes, as verdant as the grass during summertime. That scent filled his nostrils again, overwhelming his senses. Wildflowers, gentle, sweet perfumes, and the cleanest of soaps.

“Hmm.” He grunted, finally breaking their eye contact to stare elsewhere — down at the water he’d sat in. The silence was somewhat awkward, perhaps a touch filled with a strange tension. “It’s good to see you too.” Geralt spoke softly, his gravelly tone surprisingly relaxed. ‘Anything but Jaskier’, he thought, but was that true? Seeing Isira again made him feel … Happy. His own version of it, at least.

Isira moved closer, until she was sitting next to the bathtub, hands situated within her lap. “Are you going to Queen Calanthe’s banquet?” She’d ask, curious of his answer.

“Unfortunately.” Geralt let out a scoff. “Jaskier needs defending from royal cuckolds he’s wronged in the past.” At last, a smile finally crept across his features at the expense of his own amusement. He’d looked to Isira again, who was a little below his eye level. 

She giggled, nose wrinkling when she realized what shenanigans Jaskier often got up to. “I’m going, too. I’ve never been to something like this — a royal occasion. I’m quite thrilled, even if it might be boring.” 

The Witcher found himself wondering about what she might wear. A pretty dress made for a princess, something out of silk. Anything would make her look absolutely beautiful, captivating was a mere understatement. Something light to contrast with her eyes, or perhaps something that revealed more of that figure smuggled underneath so many layers.

His thoughts became rampant, and he cursed himself for thinking of her that way, but being around her again was intoxicating. He’d missed her presence, and deep down, had contemplated on going to look for her again on numerous occasions. The whores he’d slept with couldn’t compare to her, and those emerald eyes. They were doting whenever they looked at him, filled with appreciation. His desire to protect her became stronger.

“Just stay by my side.” Geralt murmured, his amber, luminous eyes fluttering to her full, soft lips. Lips he wanted to capture within his own. The temptation was so heavy in that moment, that he’d almost started to tip forward just to try. He never wanted anyone to need him . . . Yet, here he was. He wanted her to want him, to need him always. 

Isira blushed, and she’d noticed the way he’d tilted forward, the way his husky, baritone voice had become softer. Gods, she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him that night they’d fallen asleep near the campfire, but she didn’t have the courage to do so. Gently, those silken fingertips of hers rest against his muscled forearm, and she began to lean closer. “Geralt.” She whispered. 

The way she’d said his name made him grow warm, almost clasped his hand into her hair and bring her closer . . . And he didn’t. They were mere breaths apart, lips hovering and preparing to collide, before Jaskier had made his grand entrance, causing Isira to stand up so suddenly. 

“Ah, you two are still here! I brought these.” Jaskier held up a bundle of clothing. “If we’re going to this royal affair, you’ll need to look the part.” The Bard placed it down onto a nearby bench, which prompted Isira to move toward the doorway quite hastily. 

“If you’ll excuse me.” Isira murmured, slipping outside without having time to speak to Jaskier. She went into the room Geralt had purchased for two nights, shutting the door behind her. It was all becoming a little overwhelming, but her heart ached — she knew what she wanted, yet she was too afraid to try. 

Geralt didn’t need someone else complicating his lifestyle. He’d said it many times before, that he never wanted someone to need him. She did need him. The protective nature he had, the softness underneath a rough, rugged exterior were things she desired most about him. His compassion, even if it never made itself outwardly known.

Exhaling to calm herself down, Isira moved toward the long, cracked mirror in the corner of the little room, unraveling the bundle she’d held underneath that cloak. It was ornately wrapped with ribbons and paper to protect it, and she’d shred the paper away to reveal the gown hidden inside.

It was gossamer and velvet, beautiful beyond anything else she’d worn before. The gown wasn’t unnecessarily lengthy, the color a lighter, dusky - blue embroidered with silver adornments and stitching. There weren’t any sleeves to cover the shoulders, but they instead began halfway down the arm, at the crook of her elbows. The garment was of some of the finest craftsmanship, elegant and well-stitched together. However, the gown didn’t cover part of her back, the space between the center to the nape of her neck.

Slipping out of her old garments and cloak, Isira instead donned this new gown, which almost felt too fancy for her. Staring into the mirror, she’d gingerly pluck at the puffy lower sleeves and adjust the gown until it looked as best as it could. Perhaps it wasn’t horrible — she just wasn’t used to this. 

Did she look ball-ready? Maybe. Isira sighed, brows furrowing together the longer she stared at her appearance in the mirror. Picking absentmindedly at her fingers, she finally moved to grab her old clothes, wrapping them up in the same ribbon used for her gown, bundling them away into her cloak.

—————

When they arrived at Cintra, Jaskier wouldn’t stop talking about the many noblemen who wanted to hurt him for countless offenses — sleeping with their wives being mentioned plenty of times. 

Geralt seemed annoyed, but it was primarily with the gaudy clothing he’d been forced into. He missed the worn confines of his armor — this blue jacket and strange, frilly shirt made him feel quite idiotic. He had Jaskier to thank for that.

The banquet would be a dull affair, the Witcher knew that for certain. Most occasions involving the rich and royal were for peacocking around in fine clothing and spouting off about all of their numerous accomplishments. Geralt found it all extremely pretentious and self-centered.

He found himself looking to Isira again, who looked stunning in that navy gown of hers. She did seem a little nervous, to which, he’d try and reassure her. As Jaskier walked ahead of them toward Queen Calanthe’s palace, Geralt slowed to walk beside Isira. 

“You look beautiful.” The Witcher murmured, noticing her expression of shock, followed by the blush that spread out across her delicate features. 

“Oh,” She stammered, trying to stare straight ahead. “Thank you, Geralt.” Isira smiled, though it reflected her anxiousness and fear she had from attending this banquet. 

The Witcher felt her scent swim around his head, scintillating and the sweetest it could be. There was a different smell intermingled with familiar ones he’d caught before — there was a hint of rose water. It permeated her hair, which appeared to be freshly-washed and shiny. Her nervous demeanor could be felt physically from the way she walked and talked — he felt for her.

As the trio entered the banquet hall, the sound of many voices and laughter echoed across the massive room. There were many people engaging in the normal festivities of a party — drinking, yelling, exchanging stories and the like. Jaskier had asked them to not draw unnecessary attention to themselves, but it seemed that many knew of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf and Butcher of Blaviken.

Isira had wandered off once a man had pulled Geralt aside to talk. She wove her way around the tables, averting the gazes of strangers. A platter of fine cheeses and fruits sat near the edge, and that was where she was heading to. Plucking greedy handfuls of snacks, the emerald-eyed girl crunched upon grapes, watching as Jaskier prepared songs with a group of entertainers.

She merely enjoyed the atmosphere — it was enough to keep her content and perfectly at-ease. Isira would smile to those who passed her, stuffing cheese into her mouth like a hungry little mouse. She really didn’t get the luxury of eating finer morsels like this, so she took every opportunity to eat like a queen.

When Queen Calanthe had stormed into the room, fearless and boisterous, Isira found herself surprised. Her confidence and bold swagger was not unlike that of a male ruler — it was something nice to see. As the entire hall raised their glasses and steins for a toast, Isira merely observed from her spot against a marble column, eating the last of her grapes.

Geralt was addressed within a matter of minutes. “Enough! It seems we have an esteemed guest here. Perhaps he can tell us which one of the lords are telling the truth.” Calanthe proclaimed.

“Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of Manticore.” The Witcher uttered, deciding not to cause any conflict here. Jaskier was practically begging him not to, and to respect the wishes of his friend, he didn’t defy any orders. Isira was here, too — the last thing he wanted was for her to see him in the midst of violence.

His gaze had shifted across the room, spotting Isira. He scoffed when he’d watched her eat so ravenously, though he wondered why she remained tucked away in a corner for the duration of the feast. Abandoning his ale upon the stone bannister, he crossed the room, approaching her with a softer expression. 

Jaskier had started to sing, waltzing and prancing around the room to serenade all with his whimsical compositions. The crowds seemed to enjoy him, clapping and singing along with his music. Geralt was glad that he was getting that attention he craved.

“Need company?” He’d ask, his hulking frame shifting to stand beside her. Isira smiled, offering him a grape, to which he accepted. Placing it into his mouth, the crunch, followed by a surge of sweet juice was rather appetizing to him. “Hmm.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” She teased, watching Jaskier with a grin of amusement. “He’s quite the showman. Everyone adores him.” Isira was happy for her friend, the Bard. 

“They adore him, or they feign it.” Geralt chuckled, staring down at her with those brilliant golden eyes. He wanted to go elsewhere with her, somewhere that they could be alone and have the solace they wanted. It was rude of him to go wandering off, but he did warn Jaskier that he was on his own.

Isira giggled at that, nose wrinkling in amusement. “You were right about these being dull affairs. The only upside is the wonderful food they’ve provided. I seem to be the only one taking grapes.” She replied, her tone jovial and upbeat. “But people here seem to like you, know you, even. Your reputation stretches much farther than White Orchard or Blaviken.” 

The Witcher seemed surprised — he thought she’d enjoy something like this. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to assume he knew everything about her. Lots of things could change in five years being apart. What did he know, anyway? 

“I’m not one to care about reputation.” Geralt’s reply was followed by a soft grunt, yet his gaze had never once left her. Other observers could pick out that golden-eyes stare anywhere, which was fixated on the girl. He’d smirk halfheartedly, more amused than anything else. “Let alone people liking me.” Most didn’t anyways. Because of his species, because of being a Witcher, many people found him a monster just like the rest. He was used to it, now.

Isira frowned slightly, but didn’t try and say what she wanted to originally. Biting back her words, she remained silent for a moment. “Have they always . . . Disliked you?” She’d pry, her tone soft and genuine. She had many questions for him, questions she hadn’t gotten to ask.

“To them, I am not human. What isn’t human, usually gets hurt.” Once more, Geralt was more amused by this than anything else. His comment was followed by a deep chuckle. Not many Humans could hurt him, if any — not many humans could unravel the mystery that was Geralt of Rivia. 

“Are there many Witchers out there? More like you?” Isira asked, though immediately regretted it when she saw the shift in his expression. 

Geralt became stoic, solemn — his brows furrowed together, and his head hung slightly for a moment. “Hmm.” He contemplated his next words carefully, and finally lifted his head. “It is no longer possible to create more of us since the sacking of Kaer Morhen.” He murmured. “Vesemir was the last living Witcher who resided in that castle, my teacher.”

Isira sighed, seeming apologetic before she gently shook her head. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I shouldn’t have asked that.” It must’ve brought up foul memories for him, didn’t it? The way he spoke about it was full of a subtle sadness, even if he chose not to acknowledge it. 

“You’ve a right to curiosity, Isira.” Geralt rumbled, and a thin-lipped smile would cross his features. It was enough to make the young woman blush like a doting damsel, something she tried to actively avoid, but around Geralt, it simply didn’t work. 

“Walk with me.” He’d offer his arm to her, feeling a sensation of warmth as her smaller hand wrapped around the crook of his elbow. Geralt had gently led her away from the banquet, up a set of steps and into the winding corridors of the Queen’s castle. Jaskier mentioned having a room somewhere around here . . . Geralt’s mind was being assaulted with all sorts of ideas. 

Though, he thought considerably on her question. Many Witchers were slaughtered by fanatics who found them to be abominations. It was why he sometimes regarded others with such disdain — they did the same to him, to all of his kin, without mercy or consideration. Nonetheless, he’d drag himself away from that in order to focus on Isira.

The serenity and quiet that had befallen them was most comfortable. He didn’t mind being in her presence — she didn’t have to say anything, and he’d enjoy it all the same. Their pace was slow and intentionally a little sluggish, the sunset glimmering throughout the hallways. The stain glass windows caught that light and made it explode into fractals of color.

“I missed you, Geralt.” Isira admitted, her fingers nervously shifting against the crook of his arm, curling into the fabric of his overcoat. She wanted to be important to someone — to him. Not a day went by during all of those years that she didn’t think about him and wish him well, pray that he was safe.

The Witcher was taken aback. He wasn’t used to people missing him, and then he realized . . . People needed him. Isira needed him, whether she planned on admitting to it or not. Geralt knew that he couldn’t keep running away from it, running from this girl he’d saved. Those intense emerald eyes were there whenever he fell asleep, and whenever he woke. 

He sighed, pale brows furrowing together as he expressed his concern in a more subtle way. Geralt did miss her — her presence, her scent, that bubbly laughter that always erupted from her whenever Jaskier had done something unbelievably stupid. He didn’t want to need her, but he did. He yearned for her, whether he liked it or not.

“I missed you, Isira.” His gravelly voice murmured, and Geralt had stopped in his tracks, turning to face her. His visage was softer, compassionate reflected there upon his grizzled features. Their eyes had captured one another’s, emerald and gold. He couldn’t keep holding himself back, denying himself everything.

That was all she needed to hear. She needed to know that he missed her as much as she missed him. Hearing that confirmation leave him made butterflies erupt within the pit of her stomach, made her skin crawl with warmth. Both of her small hands would gently twine around one of his, holding it close as she brought it to the side of her face, keeping it there.

Geralt was rendered speechless, starstruck, yet it didn’t impede his next course of action. One arm was enough to effortlessly scoop her up and against his bulky, muscled physique. Her scent became overpowering, and it elicited a classic, “hmm” from him. Feeling her release his hand, he brought it back to clasp near her cheek. Their lips became tangled seconds later, their kiss filled with a feverish passion that had been long in the making. 

Isira felt warmth spread across her face, causing a scarlet blush to rise to her features. Feeling Geralt’s calloused palm press against her cheek was enough to satisfy her, knowing that he cared as much as she did. His lips were surprisingly soft, not something she expected, but it was welcome nonetheless. His thumb had stroked just underneath her eye, across the freckled skin there. 

As Geralt drew away enough to glimpse upon her visage, he watched her smile. It made him feel something else — something foreign. He’d chuckle, deep and genuine before gently brushing aside hair that might’ve interfered with him seeing her face in-full. Instead, he’d lock his arms around her, picking her up and collecting her into his arms. He held her with care, cradling her as if she were a newlywed bride.

He’d wander upstairs, ogling doors that might’ve been locked. A rumble formed within his chest as he brought his leg up, attempting to kick in the first door he saw. It buckled and groaned against the force of his heft, and when he tried again a second time, it splintered and flung open, slamming against the wall. The noise echoed down the hallway.

Whether or not it was suitable, he didn’t entirely care. Carrying her inside, he’d back up to shut the door — gently, this time. He heard it latch behind him, only to realize that it was Isira and her magic that had done so. Smirking at that, he had a look at the smaller room. It was someone’s study — it resembled a small library, the hearth still roaring. 

It wasn’t theirs anymore. 

Setting Isira down onto solid ground, he did another swift scan of the room. There wasn’t a bed, though it didn’t exactly hinder things, in his eyes. Geralt observed her closely, watching as she unclasped that velvet cloak she wore around, draping it over the tall back of a chair. 

“I do think you look nice in that coat,” Isira remarked, turning to face him with a coy smile. “Even if you do look like a silk trader.” Those emerald eyes sparkled in the orange light of the fire, her breath hitching slightly when Geralt had lumbered closer. 

“Very funny.” He’d grunt, though the hint of a grin toyed at the corners of his mouth. Discarding that ghastly blue jacket he’d been stuffed into, he tossed it carelessly behind him, the shirt following suit. It was all far too tight on him, and it made him look too much like Jaskier for comfort. Those gaudy garments were removed within a matter of moments. 

Geralt was built like a stone wall, massive and solid. That thick torso of his was both impressively muscled, covered in a lighter layer of hair, not that she minded. His form was littered in scars, some large and livid, and others smaller and faint. One of those arms had twined around her, fingers bunching into the fabric clinging to her hips. 

Isira could finally touch him without feeling so afraid, running her smooth fingertips over each scar she’d come into contact with. There were three at his ribcage — the very same given to him by her father. Her entire palm had come to rest there, holding herself against him. 

He didn’t talk much, if any during their moments together, especially in such an intimate way like this. Geralt was busy soaking all of her in, as his free hand slipped to brush her hair aside, lips lowering themselves to press kisses against her neck. Oddly enough, he was being rather gentle with her — tender, yet passionate. His breath was hot, his usual forest-like scent now twined with clean linens. 

It didn’t take long for his free hand to travel to that bejeweled necklace that held part of her gown up, though before he could do that, she’d stopped him rather suddenly. “What is it?” Geralt asked, moving away from her swan like neck to gaze endlessly at her, brows furrowing together to show concern. 

“I’ve never . . .” Isira uttered, chewing anxiously at her lower lip. She was afraid it might turn him off to trying anything with her, though admittedly, she was more embarrassed about it than anything else. 

The Witcher seemed a little surprised, but some part of him had a hunch that she’d never been deflowered yet. It left him feeling more responsible for giving her everything she wanted, not that he didn’t want to. “I’ll be gentle.” He murmured, his tone solemn and genuine. 

Isira nodded at that, and then allowed him to keep going. Geralt started where he’d left off before, gently working at the metallic piece until it’d click, unclasping for him. Removing it from her neck, he watched as her fingers tugged at silver strings, which effectively loosened up the torso of the elegant gown. 

He was bristling with anticipation to see her, all of her, without anything to stand in their way. Letting it go, that gown slipped away with a few tugs and pulls in the right areas, leaving her completely bare before him. That sun kissed skin glistened beautifully in the dancing light of the hearth, and Geralt knew he’d chosen wisely. 

His hands curiously began to travel everywhere, caressing her sides and soft hips, kneading into her flesh. Those calloused, rough hands had seen and handled plenty before, and his expertise most likely came in handy with her. The Witcher finally kissed her, fervently and with compassion. This time, the entanglement of their mouths proved to be far more hot and heavy than before in the corridor.

Isira initially felt a little strange, especially when showing herself to a man, but Geralt handled her better than any other had before. His hands were searching, everywhere they could go, they went. Something rigid had begun to make its presence known, pressing against her lower tummy. 

Geralt felt the strain of his cock against those leather trousers, which was beginning to make him uncomfortable, if not a little worked up. One hand began to travel along the back of her thigh, hoisting her up into his grasp. He would lay her down against the thick, bearskin rug that had rest near the hearth, crawling on top of her.

“You’re beautiful.” The Witcher rumbled, enough to send shivers down the length of her spine. His mouth dipped to place languid kisses underneath her jaw, traveling a bit lower until hot breath fanned across her jugular. White hair spilled over his broad shoulders, the ends brushing up against her collarbone. 

“Geralt,” Isira sighed, nibbling on her lower lip with eager anticipation. His bulky form had found purchase between her legs, one loosely wrapped near his hips. Her palms slid across his shoulders and chest, before coming to settle against his biceps. 

He felt the sensation and warmth of her touch, and it was enough to bring him to his knees. Geralt’s scruffy visage moved against her collarbone, lowering until his mouth became a little rougher. Soft lips would trap one nipple into his mouth, biting around the sensitive flesh. Her moans began to fill that small study, high-pitched and filled with need. 

Geralt caught a glimpse of those wide emerald eyes, and they had trained themselves upon him for a moment, until her eyes fluttered shut. After showering one breast in enough attention, leaving it a little swollen, he moved to the other, teeth grazing against that silken skin of hers. His lips did their best, working against her nipple before releasing it from his maw.

Isira’s hands briefly twined themselves into his hair, coaxing him back up to meet her mouth. Their lips danced together, passionate and filled with a mutual desire. He could kiss her forever, it seemed. She was just as eager as he was, savoring each kiss as if it would be their last. She tasted sweet, like the honeyed cheese and delicious grapes she’d eaten earlier on. Geralt found himself falling more entranced with her, second by second. Giving her another heavy kiss, he’d part from her with a slight smirk.

He wasn’t exactly a womanizer — he preferred their company whenever it suited him or fed his appetite. But Isira was a woman worth fighting for, and worth keeping around for his own good. It was rare to find him wanting just one — Geralt found himself liking it this way. Having just one, one woman to occupy his time with. To share in his adventures . . . Perhaps it was this destiny bullshit that so many rambled about.

Sitting up onto his knees, his large frame still between her legs, he towered over her, taking a moment to appreciate her in a far more disheveled state. The rise and fall of her chest was a little faster than usual, and those brunette tresses were splayed all around her head, a wreath of brown. Her lower lip was a little swollen from their excessive kissing. 

He reached down, trailing the pad of his thumb across her lower lip with a soft grunt. However, Geralt decided to change his course of action instead of going straight to fucking her. The Witcher usually never engaged in foreplay — he was obscenely straightforward and oftentimes blunt. This time was different — he wanted her to feel good.

Instead, Geralt’s hand traversed the length of her soft body, feeling along her breasts and then lower. Everything about her was calm, soothing — even those hues of hers. Gingerly squeezing at her hips, his hand sweetly brushed against her inner thighs, almost teasing her before they met her womanhood.

Isira shifted with anticipation, her stomach twisting into knots. Her gaze locked with Geralt’s, and seeing that haze of lust and desire nearly made her whimper. No man had ever touched her like this, and having the Witcher to be her first was something unimaginable. 

That initial contact he’d made with her clit had caused her to gasp, teeth nibbling on her lower lip, even if it was sore. Already, she was wet between her thighs, a notion that excited Geralt even more since he knew what effect he had upon her body. He’d slowly stroked the length of her cunt, watching her every movement like a patient predator.

She’d moved enough to feel his rough fingers put pressure against her clit, and with her squirming and mewls, Geralt began to act with more haste put behind his stroking. Moving circles against her clit with a little force, the other would work on pushing past her inner walls. Hearing her little noises only spurred him on to continue, perhaps rougher.

“More,” Isira gasped, one of her hands snapping downwards to his forearm, holding tightly. “Geralt, please.” She whined, writhing against the thick fur of the rug. Her soft, sweet begging was rewarded, and his actions became fervent as he pushed his fingers against her clit. It didn’t take long for one to push past those silky walls, with enough force to penetrate her.

They reveled in the pleasure of another — a cycle that kept both of them completely satisfied. Feeling her hips roll against his hand, Geralt didn’t stop finger-fucking her until she was moaning, enough for the hallway outside to potentially hear them. As she quivered, he slipped his hand free of her tight quim, his fingers wet with her arousal. 

Geralt denied her, but it was to assist with something else. Ripping away the strings of his leather trousers, he peeled off any remaining articles of clothing, both arms snaking around her to collect her into his lap. He wanted her first time to be . . . Tamer. Not have him snarling while hunched over her smaller body. This way, he enjoyed anyways. 

One hand moved to cup her cheek, his palm almost enveloping the entire side with their differences in size. He didn’t say anything — Geralt didn’t need to speak. His feelings were conveyed so clearly through his golden gaze, and it was enough for Isira. Her small hands gently draped themselves over his shoulders, coming to rest at the nape of his neck. 

Isira kissed him again, feeling one of his hands grasp at her backside, where her thigh met her rear. Seeing him fully allowed for more appreciation of his body — scarred, but his legs were like the trunks of trees. Once she was situated, straddling him with a more relaxed position, Geralt pressed a kiss against her collarbone before lifting her onto his cock.

Both of them groaned in a heated synchronization, though Isira’s became higher in pitch, the more he filled her. “Fuck,” He’d grunt, planting both of his calloused hands against her hips, adjusting their angle until it was perfect for the both of them. 

Gods, she was tight. The Witcher needed to be mindful about pace, or she wouldn’t be able to walk after they were done. He gave her time to accommodate his size, and using his strength, began to gently roll her up and down upon his cock. It was more of riding if anything, but he opted to assist her for now, with it being her first experience.

They were tender together, at first. Isira was deflowered, and the magic she possessed sometimes kept her from feeling discomfort or pain. Her warm, sweet breath fanned out against his neck and face, causing his head to swim slightly. His hips would clash to meet hers, producing lewd noises as flesh met with flesh as he pulled her onto his cock in a steady succession. 

“Let me,” Isira whispered, and with what little knowledge she had, would begin to roll her hips, the friction eliciting a moan from her the faster she went. Geralt merely held onto her, one thick arm locking around her back as she rode his cock. Her lips tangled with his, sloppy and passionate the more intense their lovemaking grew. She rode him with what little experience she possessed, gasping and moaning the deeper he went. 

It didn’t take long for their positions to switch, and Geralt was now poised above her. Wrapping one leg around his hips, he’d grip the other, pounding himself into her, now. Pressing hot kisses against her jawline and near her neck, the Witcher was relentless, his cock pumping in and out of her at a rapid pace.

He was grunting, softer groans leaving his teeth, which had been gnashed together. Geralt heard every mewl and moan she made, and it drove him mad with lust. Her eyes had closed, and he made every moment of their time alone together worthwhile. Their bodies were snug against one another, and being in such close proximity to the hearth, perspiration built up rather easily. 

“Geralt!” Isira cried out his name, clinging onto him like a drowning woman as his lovemaking devolved into fucking. She didn’t mind nor protest to it — the overwhelming pleasure surging along her body was enough to make her cum, but she was nearly there. Feeling his hand rest near her head with the shifting of the furs, her smaller physique began to shake.

The wave of pleasure became blinding, and with another series of deep, rough thrusts, Isira felt the snap, and it left her a mess. Moaning rather loudly without much of a filter for volume, she came, her orgasm hitting her like a ton of rocks. Tangled with the Witcher, her fingers pressed into his shoulders, and she felt his thrusts slow just a touch until he buried his cock as far as it could go. Sheathed inside of her, he’d pull out before slamming himself back in, making her ache with want.

“Fuck, Isira.” Geralt’s gravelly voice spilled into her ear, and the Witcher came, infertile seed being poured inside of her womanhood. He couldn’t bear any children, so it posed no threat to her, and he hardly had to worry. Damp with sweat, he’d spill every last drop into her until removing himself with a lewd pop, falling onto the fur beside her.

Isira remained still, gently wiping at her temples with the back of her hand. Sitting up, she’d reach for the blanket draped over the back of a chair, the thin material falling over both her and Geralt. She was coming down from her high and from the physical exertion, rolling over to face him.

Both being tangled up within that small blanket, Geralt turned to face her, his expression reflecting a notion of tenderness. Feeling her fingertips gently caress his cheek and along his jawline, he’d exhale, eyes actually closing. He could trust her enough to shut his eyes and relax. “Hmm.”

“I didn’t know that your thighs were so huge.” Isira’s offhand comment made the Witcher laugh, even through closed eyes. Pearlescent, sharper teeth were revealed in an amused grin. It was something that women never commented on, so hearing it from her was something else. 

“The same can be said for your breasts.” He’d utter, and felt a light smack against his shoulder. It almost looked like he was falling asleep after all of that, but he was merely basking within her presence. 

Isira giggled, shifting closer in order to reach for his leg, fingertips tracing over the scars there. The emerald-eyed woman watched Geralt with both curiosity and adoration. Her touch was like fire and ice, the softness of her embrace leaving him wanting and waiting. 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” She’d ask, perking up slightly when Geralt began to stir, laying down upon his back. One massive arm twined loosely around her shoulders, dragging her closer to him until she could rest against his chest.

“No. I like hearing you talk.” The Witcher replied, tucking the other arm beneath his head. That blanket had just barely protected their modesty, only wrapping around lower torsos and legs. Isira felt that rough hand caress along the side of her breast before she snatched ahold of his hand with both of hers.

“I wonder if people are worried about where we are.” Isira mused, and her thoughts had immediately jumped to Jaskier. It made Geralt smile just a little bit, breaking that rugged exterior. Whenever he was around her, he spoke more in one sitting than he usually had in weeks.

“What happened to ‘these are dull affairs”?” He teased, craning his head enough to gaze upon her. The thin material shrouded her womanhood from view, but her chest was on full-display — he liked seeing her that way. It was a sight for his eyes, and his alone. “Don’t worry.”

Isira sat up, blanket pooling around her hips, and Geralt had done the same. The two basked in the roaring, orange flames that danced across the dark study. He gently began to card his fingers through her hair, pressing kisses against her back and spine. It was the tender side to the Witcher, the side that showed affection for his beloved. 

She held his hand, feeling the uneven edges and callouses from gauntlets and holding swords. He let her trace every edge, never once pulling away or stopping her. Geralt was never treated with such delicate love before — he could certainly grow used to it.

It didn’t take long for their lips to find one another again, yet this time, they exchanged lust and heat for tender romance. Their aftercare of one another was rather touching, especially to Isira, who felt the sweetness of Geralt’s kisses, even if it wasn’t his intention. 

“Don’t leave me again.” He broke the kiss to say those three words, and it was enough for Isira to want to stay forever. His tone was entirely serious — he meant every word. Cupping his stubbled, grizzled visage within both of her hands, her eyes conveyed all that needed to be said. It was satisfactory enough for Geralt, and without another word, he leaned back in for a kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Isira is my original character, and I plan on posting the ‘prologue’ of sorts to this so people can understand the context of her sweet relationship with Geralt. But I had to get this smut out. It was too hot. Sorry not sorry. Gersira is my new thing.


End file.
